Ruining Things
by Angie Crawford
Summary: Rumors are circulating Hogwarts again. But this time, there's truth behind the talk. HHr ficlet.


Disclaimer: All the Harry Potter characters and settings belong to the wonderfully brilliant J.K. Rowling.  
  
A/N: I haven't written a fanfic in an extremely long time, and I hope this is ok. I wanted to write something H/Hr, but something slightly off the beaten path. It's short, but hopefully sweet.  
  
The day was dreary, the sky a revolting shade of gray highlighted only by bursts of lightning every few minutes. Most of the students at Hogwarts had given up on any thought of venturing outdoors (except for the luckless souls who had either Herbology or Care of Magical Creatures), and had opted instead to stay inside the warm confines of his or her own common room.  
  
Sixteen-year-old Harry Potter was no exception. He had just completed a thoroughly banal day of classes, and at the moment was seated in his favorite armchair across from the roaring fire in the Gryffindor common room, staring blankly into the flames. Harry was thinking rather hard, not about Voldemort or Cedric or Sirius, but about a certain person he would just as rather not have to picture in his mind.  
  
His stomach churned restlessly, as though it had just started attempting to digest Hagrid's infamous cooking. He sighed, burying his face in his hands. As hard as he tried, he couldn't fully explain what had happened only moments before in the corridor.  
  
Harry, Ron, and Hermione had been heading for the library—they had essays that desperately needed to be finished—when Ron mentioned something rather odd. "Harry, has that Skeeter woman been round?" he had asked, in a would-be offhand sort of way had his nervous glance not shifted to the floor as the words left his mouth. "It's just...I've been noticing...things," he had finished lamely.  
  
Harry had turned to look questioningly at Hermione, who seemed for a moment to have lost use of her tongue. "Rumors," she had finally managed to mumble while shaking her head. "About...you and me. Again."  
  
Harry had felt an odd sensation in his stomach at her words, but ignored it, stopping dead in his tracks. "That's it," he had stated, his voice dead calm. "That's bloody well it. I've had it." And then he had turned and walked briskly away, stalking up several flights of stairs and shouting the password out to the Fat Lady before she could ask.  
  
Sitting now by the fire, Harry couldn't comprehend what he had been thinking. He knew he had been rash in his actions, but he found he did not care. What did the papers say now? How would he deflect the rumors? Why would Rita Skeeter endanger her career, knowing that her Animagus secret could easily be revealed? Or was it even Skeeter at all? Was it some busybody Gryffindor like Lavender or Parvati, who just found they couldn't keep their overly large mouths shut about such things?  
  
Harry felt a warm hand on his shoulder, but didn't look up. He couldn't bring himself to face anyone. He couldn't lie, not about this. "Harry..." It was Hermione.  
  
He managed to sit up somewhat straighter, but refused to meet her eyes. "Where's Ron?" he asked, feeling numb. Hermione sighed, seating herself on the arm of Harry's chair, her hand still on his shoulder. "He said he'd be waiting for us. He's in the library, actually," she said, traces of a smile evident in her voice.  
  
Harry snorted slightly. "How'd you manage that? Used to be the only way to get him in the library by himself was to threaten him with no dessert."  
  
Hermione didn't answer him. Instead, she whispered, "It couldn't be a secret forever, Harry." For the first time since she had entered the common room, Harry turned his eyes up at her, taking in her solemn, sad expression. His stomach fluttered. He was suddenly very acutely aware of the hand resting on his shoulder, and he squirmed a bit in his chair. He swallowed, finding it very hard to speak the right words. "I just...didn't want them to ruin it," he finally whispered.  
  
The look on Hermione's face made him question himself, made his cheeks attempt to blend with the shades of red around the room. Then, surprisingly, Hermione grinned and pulled him into a hug. He found his nose buried in her shoulder, inhaling a beautiful scent unique to Hermione that reminded him vaguely of Quidditch, of the sudden lightheadedness that overcame a person once they were soaring through the air. It was from this position that he heard her voice, confident despite her whisper: "They haven't ruined a thing, Harry."  
  
Outside, the dreary day continued. The clouds wept and thunder shook the earth below. Somewhere, Voldemort was planning the death of a certain 16-year-old boy. But inside Hogwarts, with the warmth of the common room fire placating them for the moment, the same 16-year-old boy and his best female friend sat close together, sharing a very uncertain (but by no means wet) first kiss. 


End file.
